


On the Importance of Communication

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 15:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10494390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: The Met are stretched to breaking point and Greg is feeling the strain. So much so that he neglects to check his phone. Sherlock, who has been trying to get hold of him, takes things into his own hands when he doesn't get a reply.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CindyLouWho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CindyLouWho/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock :(
> 
> For CindyLouWho because she's wonderful, and inspired this rambling. 
> 
> Not beta'd. All mistakes are mine. I will hunt the buggers out when I've had a decent night's sleep, though. 
> 
> Feedback is loved.

Greg looked at his watch and fought a dismayed sigh upon seeing how late it was. They were no closer to working out who had killed the victim than they had been that morning, he was absolutely exhausted, and his feet were so sore from being on them for the best part of thirty six hours that walking was becoming a real chore. 

“Lestrade, I’ve got something!” came the call from one of his temporary team members, and Greg left his contemplation of the contents of the bathroom cabinet and headed to the lounge. Jamie Harker, a young DC from the Nottinghamshire Constabulary, was standing beside a tall bookcase, practically vibrating with urgency. “Looks like there was something here,” he said, pointing at a spot on the second-to-bottom shelf. “There’s a light layer of dust on these shelves but there’s a line in it right there.”

Looking carefully at the shelf, Greg immediately noticed the line. “Well spotted,” he told the young officer. In recent days it had been a case of all hands on deck to deal with the aftermath of a terror incident, and staff had been pulled from their teams to cover beat shifts whilst the city was on high alert. The criminals, as was their wont, were taking advantage of the Met’s resources being stretched to breaking point, which had necessitated officers being called in from other forces across the country to help meet the demand. Getting used to working with new staff was always challenging, but doing it when running on two hours’ sleep in as many days, especially when said sleep had been at his desk, was doubly difficult. Fortunately, Harker and Patel, an officer from the Derbyshire Constabulary, were bloody good at their jobs and Harker had a brilliant eye for detail. “You sure I can’t tempt you down from Notts?”

Harker laughed, cheeks flushing slightly at the praise. “Maybe.”

“Good job. I’ll get someone from forensics through, but it looks like there was a photograph there to me. Go room-to-room looking for any photos at all, or anywhere that it looks like there was one, and get forensics to follow up. The sooner we work out what’s going on here the better,” Greg said, running a hand through his hair. He was exhausted, aching, and his nerves were on edge from the recent loss of one of their own, but the case still needed solving. 

“You okay, Sir?” Harker asked, worry so plain on his face that Greg had the fleeting hope that the young man never had to go undercover. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Come on, back to work.”

Leaving Harker to look for more evidence, Greg went out to the small front yard where DC Patel was talking to Jane Smith from forensics. There was a definite chill in the air but the rain had finally stopped, and it felt good to be outside. “Smith, I need the bookcase in the lounge photographing, sweeping for prints, and whatever else you can think of.” 

Smith nodded in reply and disappeared into the building, leaving Greg in the small front yard with Patel. The flat was in a traditional terraced house which had been converted in the eighties, and the lounge of the victim’s flat overlooked the small scrap of yard at the front. It was enclosed by a low, rough, stone wall and the gate set to the right hand side gave access to the property from the street. To Greg’s tired, dry eyes there was nothing to be seen, but he knew that he was well past optimum functioning. “Anything interesting out here?” 

“Just some fag nubs, Sir,” she replied, pointing at the discarded butts. There were three of them, all to the left of the lounge widow. “Did the victim smoke?”

“No evidence of it inside,” Greg answered, mind turning over what he had seen. “Doesn’t smell of smoke, anyway. What about the guy in the first floor—” he came to a halt when the sound of screeching tyres came from the end of the street. He and Patel walked to the gate and looked down the road to where a fancy black Audi had rounded the corner at speed. Something about the car looked familiar, but it took Greg’s sleep deprived brain far longer to recognise that it was Mycroft’s car than it should have done. “Go and help Harker, would you? I’ll be in when I know what this is about.” 

“Yes, Sir,” came Patel’s response as she headed back inside.

With a dramatic screech the car came to a stop in front of the house, but to Greg’s surprise _Sherlock_ got out of the driver’s seat. His hair was a greasy mess and the circles under his eyes were dark enough that they looked bruised, but Greg’s eyes drank the sight of him in like a thirsty man at an oasis. “Have you been afflicted with a mysterious malady that impairs your ability to return phone calls, Lestrade?” Sherlock snarled, slamming the door shut. 

“What are you doing here? How did you—”

“—I’ve only had one text from you since yesterday, and you have not returned any of my calls,” Sherlock replied, the anger bleeding out of his tone leaving him sounding as exhausted as he looked. “As to the question of how I found you, a child could crack the password on your Find My iPhone account.”

“You hacked my…what am I saying, of course you did,” Greg said resignedly. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. The battery was critically low, and there were, indeed, four missed calls from Sherlock. “I’m sorry for not calling back; we’ve been busy and I—”

“—Got caught up in it, I know. You’re an idiot.”

Greg snorted. “Just graduated from charm school, have you?” 

“I was worried,” Sherlock snapped, his displeasure at admitting it writ large across his face. “After what happened last week…”

A cold, hard sensation settled in Greg’s gut at the thought of what his partner was alluding to: an officer had been killed in the line of duty, had not returned home to her family, and Greg had left his partner worrying because he had not checked his phone. “Shit, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“—Obviously.”

Greg reached up and wiped his thumb under Sherlock’s right eye. “You look knackered; what have you been up to?”

“I’ve been with Mycroft, working on some intelligence reports that the Security Service haven’t got the capacity to deal with. He was called away for an urgent conference call, and Alan, his driver, is ridiculously easy to pickpocket. My brother had been gone for less than three minutes before I’d located your phone and nicked the car key.”

“Please don’t tell me I’m going to have an angry Mycroft turning up next,” Greg implored with a sigh.

Sherlock smirked, working a hand under Greg’s jacket to stroke his lower back. “I doubt it; he wasn’t amused by my ‘infernal moping’, as he put it. When he left for his conference call he neglected to lock his computer and the browser was open to Find My iPhone.”

“Ah, so he actually _encouraged_ you to nick his car to go haring across London. I’m not sure which of you is worse,” Greg replied, a smile breaking through for what felt like the first time in days. “Suppose you’ve answered a burning question for me, though.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, standing so close that Greg could feel his body heat through their clothes.

“Always wondered if people are dicks _before_ they drive an Audi or if there’s something about the car that changes them. I’ve seen you drive loads of times and you’ve never been that much of a menace on the road, so it's gotta be the car.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and captured Greg’s lips in a brief, chaste kiss. “There’s nothing wrong with my driving.”

The sound of the front door opening ended their conversation and Greg turned to find Patel and Harker standing in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, Sir,” Patel said, twirling a lock of hair around her right index finger, looking perplexed, “but we’ve found something a bit…weird. Can you come and have a look?”

Greg turned to Sherlock, pleased to see that the spark in his eye, which had been conspicuous by its absence, had returned. “So, since you’re already here—”

“—Come along, Lestrade: there’s no point in around out here if there’s something interesting going on!”


End file.
